I began wanting a Porsche 911 in 1969, when my father brought me along for a test drive. My staid, conservative dad synched through the gears, slammed through corners and accelerated that car like a rocket ship. It was the first time he showed me his wild side.

Photo: Stephen Finerty

I began wanting a Porsche 911 in 1969, when my father brought me...

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The Porsche I bought in 1987 was a lease return with a full-leather, brown saddle interior, including the dashboard.

Photo: Stephen Finerty

The Porsche I bought in 1987 was a lease return with a...

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To this day, "The Black Car," as my future family would call it, remains completely stock except for a lowered front seat that accommodates my height.

Photo: Stephen Finerty

To this day, "The Black Car," as my future family would call it,...

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It has no dents, no dings, and no significant scratches on the original paint.

I began wanting a Porsche 911 in 1969, when my father brought me along for a test drive. My staid, conservative dad synched through the gears, slammed through corners and accelerated that car like a rocket ship. It was the first time he showed me his wild side.

Dad really wanted that car, but life conspired against his having it. A few years later, he nearly bought one, again, but then he lost his job and ended up using the Porsche money for my college education. After that, his Porsche passion faded away.

But mine didn't. One day when I was in my early thirties, I walked into a Porsche showroom and realized that I could afford the car of my dreams.

But, how could a son buy a Porsche 911 when his father had sacrificed his own desire for one? In good conscience, I couldn't. Nor, however, could I forget it. I pestered salesmen and talked about Porsches with everyone. In retrospect, I probably lost a girlfriend by obsessing about that car.

Only one person always listened: my dad. "There are more lasting investments," he used to say. Fathers are usually right, so instead of the 911, I put a down payment on a house.

But obsessions are sick and life is short. A man should drive the car he really wants, especially after lusting for 18 years.

The Porsche I bought in 1987 was a lease return with a full-leather, brown saddle interior, including the dashboard. To this day, "The Black Car," as my future family would call it, remains completely stock except for a lowered front seat that accommodates my height. It has no dents, no dings, and no significant scratches on the original paint.

My model has neither power steering nor a pneumatic clutch. It's mechanical, measured, visceral and raw. Many modern automobiles have more creature comforts and go faster, but nothing corners better. And my 911 is part of a royal automotive lineage.

Owning a lifetime car is a different mindset. Most drivers change rides with age and maturity. In contrast, my 911 has evolved with its owner. When I was 33 years old, the two of us blazed from Los Angeles to San Francisco in a four- hour midnight run. Today, the car obliges a 58-year-old who prefers smooth, seamless shifts instead of sublime, screaming corners.

My ride has gone from hot to dignified.

Now, The Black Car has 70,000 quality miles. Think of foggy morning golf games, and balmy Sunday night rides beneath an open sunroof and blazing stars. Imagine a twitchy tachometer accompanied by the music of that gnarly, caged engine, pushing from behind.

The Black Car has provided 25 years of good memories. I fell in love with my wife in that Porsche and used it to teach my daughter to drive a stick. "I love the smell," she says. "It's leather and engine. And it smells like you." She considers the 911 to be her future inheritance.

All these years later, it is safe to say that I appreciate my ride just as my father would have. And yet, after making the purchase, I couldn't bring myself to tell him. Instead, Dad made it okay by breaking the news to me. "How are you liking that Porsche?" he finally asked on the telephone, months later.

"What do you mean?'

"Well, you got the car, right?"

I was flabbergasted. "How could you know that?"

"Simple," said Dad. "You stopped talking about it."

Even at that point in life, Dad knew me better than I knew myself. Today, I drive "The Black Car" in his memory, for both of us.

Wayne Freedman lives in San Anselmo with his wife and daughter. The UCLA grad has been a news reporter on San Francisco television for 30 years, and at ABC7 since 1991.